


we'll tell our stories on these walls

by blargha



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aroace Inquisitor, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Asexual Solas, Other, Quasiplatonic Relationship, Quasiplatonic Solavellan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:08:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blargha/pseuds/blargha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor is aromantic. Solas isn't. They make it work. Or: the quasiplatonic retelling of the Solas romance no-one was looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll tell our stories on these walls

~*~*~*~

1.

~*~*~*~

Solas is the only one who makes any kind of sense at first. That's all there is to it.

Varric has been friendly enough, but he's a city-dweller through and through; Tathas hasn't even seen a city in years, not since a bad fall had forced her to hole up in Ansburg's alienage for a few months. The others she doesn't trust as far as she can throw. Cassandra and Cullen are faithful, are templars, are every aspect of the Chantry she's learned to fear; Leliana is lost in her grief and all the more dangerous for it; and, sure, Josephine has gone out of her way to make her feel welcome (well, as welcome as possible when she's still half a prisoner), but Tathas has seen Deshanna wrangle concessions out of stubborn elders often enough to know that people with that sweet of a tongue need watching.

And they're all used to this -- used to being in charge, used to being in the center of things, making history. And they're all expecting her to be the same but she's not, she can't be. Every time Cassandra turns to her (to _her_!) for guidance, or Josephine and Leliana drag her into yet another argument, or Varric looks at her like she's some big damn hero, her blood curdles in her veins and she has to fight the urge to flee. It would be so easy, too, she's had it all mapped out from day one, wait for nightfall, scale the walls and never look back, let them fix this mess on their own -- but then her left hand twinges as if to remind her that she can't, she's stuck here whether she wants it or not.

Compared to all of them, Solas is so close to home it hurts. She's not naive enough to think she knows him already, but his life? His life makes _sense_ to her -- she's had her share of sleeping in ruins, after all, and she can't imagine setting up wards is that different from setting up traps. There is comfort in that: familiar ground amidst all the chaos.

Ever since they've come back from the Hinterlands with Mother Giselle in tow, the advisors have been bickering like hahren over Ghilan'nain's tale. Josephine wants her to go to Val Royeaux, address the clerics directly; Tathas would sooner fling herself into the nearest rift. Fortunately, Cullen and Leliana seem to agree; unfortunately, they have yet to come up with a viable alternative, and with the Inquisition still lacking a leader, all they seem to do is argue in circles until Tathas wants to scream.

After a week of this she is beyond fed up. It's too much, all of it, the Breach and the shems and the town. She doesn't want to be there, she never asked for this. And she doesn't even know why Cassandra keeps dragging her to these meetings, it's not like she has anything to offer anyway -- it's not like she has any _choice_ , and it would be easier if they would just admit it, but they all act like she does and she can't stand it -- and all at once the fear and frustration of the last few days come crashing down on her.

Her hands slam on the table, hard enough to bruise. A stunned silence fills the room.

No-one tries to stop her when she walks out. Out of the room, out of the Chantry, almost out of Haven before she changes her mind and turns left, towards the small house Solas seems to have claimed for himself (Fen'harel knows how he managed _that_ when all she has is a bunk in the Chantry).

She finds him sitting at his desk, a book open before him, half a dozen more neatly piled up by his elbow. When she rushes in he straightens up so fast he almost knocks them over, and she cringes. She's never been one for social niceties, but barging in on an apostate who must have spent most of his life on the run is not the smartest thing she's ever done -- she's lucky he didn't freeze her ears off.

“... Herald,” he greets her after a rather confused beat.

“Yeah. I. Look, is it okay if I hide in here for a while?”

“Why? What happened?”

He sounds worried; looks it too, which is when she realizes how _she_ must look: still shaking, hands in fists, whole body tense, ready to fight or flee. She forces herself to breathe in and out.

“Nothing. Well. Nothing _new_ , I just. Need some quiet. Figured you wouldn't make it awkward.”

For a fleeting moment she's sure that she's misjudged him, that he's about to kick her out or press for more. Instead he nods and goes back to his book and, yeah, that's the thing: he _gets_ it. He gets how solitude can mess you up in a hundred little ways you don't think matter until you're forced to interact with people again; how it leaves you feeling like a stranger in your own skin.

Tathas moves in, sits down in front of the fireplace, legs crossed, arms held loose across her stomach, and closes her eyes. For the first time in what feels like forever, there is blessed, blessed silence, broken only by the crackling fire and the rustling pages. The house smells like earth and leaves. She can almost imagine herself alone in the wilderness, or back with clan Lavellan before... everything. _Almost_.

She stays still until she finds herself again, until her body stops shaking and her head isn't filled with the echoes of too many voices anymore. Then, slowly, she unfolds herself, stands and stretches until she feels her back pop, winces at the crick in her neck and the lingering ache in her hands. She hasn't felt like that in a while, all rusty like an old doornail, but a few moments of peace and quiet are well worth it.

When she turns around Solas is staring resolutely at his book, and she appreciates the gesture. He keeps his back to her until he hears her approach; only then does he look at her. She can see the questions already forming, curiosity warring with concern on his face. And it's not that she minds, not really, she knows she owes him some kind of explanation at this point, but she's never been good with words and dwelling on everything wrong with her current situation is the last thing she wants right now, so she jumps to the first distraction that comes to mind -- the set of books on his desk.

“Are those Varric's?”

When he accepts the deflection with a slight tilt of his chin and a half-smile she's so relieved she could cry.

That's how it starts.

~*~*~*~

He doesn't think much of her at first; that is, he barely thinks of her at all, caught up as he is in could-haves and should-haves. From the markings on her face ( _vallaslin_ , a word he had hoped never to hear again), he knows her to be Dalish; at the time he believes, foolishly, that this tells him all he needs to know.

After their initial failure to seal the Breach, he takes a closerlook at her. She is, after all, at the heart of things whether she wants it or not -- yet another victim of his carelessness, the latest in a long list. There is nothing more to it, or so he tells himself at first.

In truth, he is simply curious. This world, these people are still alien to him, shadows born from the wreckage of his world, phantoms with far less substance than the dream-reflections of the Fade. Since his awakening, he has mostly kept to his own, away from the People who are and are not his. He hadn't known what to make of them, those elves who cursed him in dreams, who named themselves after a land he had never seen and glorified a past he knew all too well. The gap had seemed to wide to bridge, and he had been too stubborn to give it much of a try.

But she is--

She is everything he expected her to be; she is anything but. It's strange. He had forgotten people on this side of the Veil were not so easily defined either.

He had certainly not expected to ever enjoy her company; yet before long he finds himself looking forward to her visits, to comfortable silences interspersed with quiet conversations. He should keep away -- he should want to, but something keeps him coming back against his better judgement. Her honesty. Her courage. The way she had stood before him and sworn to protect him at all costs. _However I have to._ It has been a long time since anyone has thought him worth protecting.

She would make a good leader, if only she would let herself be one. Not one that inspires great feats of heroism, no, but one that gets the job done. Sometimes, that is all that is needed.

Sometimes, he wonders--

But there is no point to it, not when there is still so much to be done. Closing the Breach is only the first step.

~*~*~*~

“I don't understand why they all expect _me_ to lead.”

In just a few days, it's become a habit for Tathas to come to Solas whenever she feels overwhelmed. Sometimes, they talk; but for the most part she is content to simply sit in silence, away from the rumblings of the world outside.

“Like I said: you have the Mark.”

“How's that supposed to help, it's just a stupid hole in my hand. All it does is hurt like hell.”

“... Still?”

“Sometimes," Tathas amends. “It's gotten a lot better since we've come back from the Hinterlands.”

“I should not be surprised. You rely on that hand too much.”

“It's my dominant hand. I'll just have to deal.”

“Of course. May I?” he says, holding out his hand.

Tathas hesitates. It's not that she doesn't trust him, though she wouldn't say she does, either, not quite yet. But she's still getting the hang of casual touches, still getting used to people grabbing her shoulder or patting her back or shaking her hand. And this seems -- not inappropriate, no, but strangely intimate in a way she's not sure she's ready for.

“Not much point now. It just... tingles.”

“Yes, well, as thrilled as I am to know that this unknown magic which can mend holes in the Veil _tingles_ , I would still like to make sure it is not killing you.”

Fair enough.

She holds out her hand. On the center of her palm the Mark flares green.

She forces herself to keep still as Solas' thumb brushes over scar tissue both old and new before settling along the jagged edges of the wound, the touch light but firm, confident. A moment later a gentle warmth seeps through her skin, all the way to her bones -- healing magic, like she's seen him use on refugees at the Crossroads. It dulls the pain and eases the strain in her tired joints.

She can't hold back a contented hum.

He doesn't say a thing, and when he lets go of her hand she pretends she didn't notice his reluctance to do so.

“The Mark is still stable, at least. That is something.”

“Right.”

He's looking at her like he's waiting for more. When she lets silence fall again he heaves the most put-upon sigh she's heard since Desh's mother caught them sneaking a baby spider into camp.

“Herald--”

“Stop calling me that.”

“--Do you intend to keep on equivocating, or will you tell me what is really bothering you?”

“I have a name, you know.”

“You are stalling.”

“And you're avoiding.”

But he's right. Again. She is stalling, has been for days really. Ever since she's realized the decision would, inevitably, fall to her. Only she doesn't want to decide, doesn't even want to think about it. Doesn't want to have to choose between the world and her own safety.

She's not so sure she'd make the right choice. Whichever it is.

“They want me to go to Val Royeaux,” she finally says.

“So I hear. What of it?”

“It's the worst idea I've ever heard! Most people still think I killed the Divine and even if they didn't, I'm a heretic! Which isn't exactly new I guess but _still_ \-- I'll be killed before I even set foot in the city.”

“Don't go, then.”

“But there's nothing else we can _do_! The mages won't talk to us, the templars won't talk to us -- no-one will talk to us because their damned politics are more important than fixing the sky. Only we can't very well just wait it out, can we?”

She trails off. Solas is smiling. Calm, collected -- he's always been calm and collected even in the face of demons and rifts and Chancellors -- like this is just a mild inconvenience to him.

“I understand your concerns,” he says, “but you should remember no-one expects you to do this on your own.”

“So?”

“So: Cassandra would not let anything happen to you. And neither would I.”

~*~*~*~

Despite Solas' reassurances, Tathas walks into Val Royeaux like a prisoner to the gallows. As soon as she spots the assembled crowd, she prepares to run for her life, Breach be damned. There's only so much anyone can do to stop a bloodthirsty mob, after all.

The templars, of all people, defuse the situation -- by making a scene of their own, kindly drawing everyone's attention _away_ from the Dalish heretic. By the time they're done no-one is paying the Inquisition any mind except for a few stragglers and some noble's envoy.

She lets Cassandra deal with the envoy (gods know no-one wants _her_ to handle _people_ ) while she takes in the sights under Varric's curious gaze.

“Ever been in a city before?” he asks, and she remembers he has a Dalish friend, he said so before, Merrill of clan Sabrae -- he probably understands more than she gave him credit for.

She thinks of Ansburg; of the winter she'd spent there, hidden in a shoemaker's workshop while her arm and ribs slowly mended. The neighbours had looked at her like she'd walked straight out of a myth, but their lives hadn't seemed so foreign to her. A close-knit community, not so different from her own clan. Only the alienage walls had kept her on her toes; a reminder that not all prisons need chains.

“None so big,” she says eventually.

“Must be pretty weird, huh?”

“You can say _that_ again.”

Val Royeaux, jewel of the Empire, is strange and alien to her eyes. She doesn't know what to make of the white buildings, the fancy masks, or the labyrinthine streets; the large crowds in larger spaces make her feel needlessly exposed. Anyone could be hiding in there.

When an arrow whizzes past her face the only surprise is that it missed. Then she notices the folded message and realizes the shot was never meant for her in the first place. She takes cover behind a column and looks up, tries to spot the archer -- can't be far -- on the upper levels, maybe -- Varric points to a balcony, but all she sees in a flash of red.

~*~*~*~

She remains on edge until they are safely aboard the ship back to Ferelden. Solas watches her slowly unwind, mile after mile after mile, as the distance to Val Royeaux grows. By the time the city is but a white-gold speck on the horizon, her shoulders, her back, her neck have lost their stiffness.

The past two days have been stressful for all of them -- her most of all. Whatever the cause of her reluctance to take charge, it had vanished as soon as she had been forced to step up to the plate, leaving her surly, terse, almost monosyllabic when she spoke at all. Not that he blames her, given the circumstances.

Still, it is good to see some of the weight lift off of her shoulders.

Lost in his own thoughts, he barely notices that he is being watched in return until she speaks up.

“Before. You told Cassandra you'd lived alone for a long time.”

It comes out of the blue, the lastest part of a conversation she has been having without him. He knows her well enough by now that this is not unusual. She talks to people like she does everything else she sets her mind to -- by jumping off the deep end.

The rash honesty is refreshing, but this is a dangerous conversation to have, especially here with nowhere to go should he need to retreat, so he does what he does best -- temporize.

“I did. And I have.”

“Do you miss it?”

He should not be surprised. She speaks so rarely of her own past, and he has refrained from asking too many questions from fear she would do the same, but loneliness leaves marks that are all too easy to recognize in others.

Sometimes he wonders what she sees when she looks at him.

“That... is not what most people would ask.”

“And?”

“Do _you_?”

It is a risky move, turning the question back on her, but she merely snorts.

“All the time. I'm not much of a people person, in case you couldn't tell.”

“What of your clan?”

“What of them?”

And there it is: steel behind those green eyes, a reminder that despite everything he is still an outsider. He expects her to end the conversation here and there; instead she lets out a long, tired sigh.

“I left after I got my _vallaslin_. And look, I don't know what rumours you've heard about the Dalish--”

“I don't need rumours to make up my mind for me.”

“-- _but_ it's probably not what you think, I wasn't chased off or anything like that, we don't -- I just. There was nothing for me there. I still visit when I can, but...”

She trails off and waves her hand in a gesture that seems meant to encompass life, the universe and everything.

“ _Did_ they send you here?”

The last time he asked, she had almost bitten his head off. It seems he has earned a measure of trust since then, for she barely misses a beat before answering:

“Desh -- our Keeper, she wanted eyes on the Conclave. Might as well send someone who knows what they're doing. You still haven't answered me, you know.”

Nor does he intend to. There is too much risk in honesty; too much at stake to take that risk. All the same, he is loath to lie to her; he always is, and she has been more up-front with him than he deserves.

He finds he cannot look her in the eye, so he settles for staring at the sky instead.

“I know what you're asking, but it wasn't the same for me. I was never truly alone, not as long as I could dream.”

“Spirits.”

“Yes.”

“Is it really the same thing?” she asks, and before he can answer: “I'm not arguing the point, I'm just trying to understand.”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“I don't know. Lots of reasons. People say that--”

“I am well aware of 'what people say'. I'm asking what _you_ think.”

She stares at him in stunned disbelief, as though she cannot imagine anyone would ever be interested in her opinion on the subject. For a moment, just a moment, she is more open than he has ever seen her -- then the moment passes and suddenly she is miles away from him, unreachable -- unreadable.

“Not much,” she spits out. “I'm not a mage, am I?” There is bitterness in her voice, and Solas feels an old, all too familiar guilt stir in his guts. “Only time I see Spirits is when they're all corrupted and shit. I imagine it's quite different from the other side.”

“It is.”

And she should have known that. She should be able to walk the Fade as mages do, should be able to witness first-hand the echoes of the world that used to be, and not just the gutted shell she lives in. But she can't. Because of him.

So, under the Veil-torn sky, with unseen sprites pressing all around them, he gives back what he can: stories of the world beyond, shiftless and forless as the sea. She listens to him, enraptured, until the ship docks and Cassandra comes to find them.

It has been a long time since anyone has thought him worth listening to as well.

That's how it starts.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, many thanks to CopperCaravan for being so patient and supportive, and if you've made it this far, thank you for reading :)


End file.
